


Wildfire Summer

by hotot



Series: Double Bind [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Porn, Backstory, Butch/Femme, Canadian Annexation, Canadian Sole Survivor, Drinking, F/F, Fingerfucking, Lesbian Character of Color, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, POV Bisexual Character, Pre-War, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Slice of Life, Smut, Tent Sex, first nations character, jeanne is more futch tho but..., this is just some inbetween pre war feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot
Summary: It's the summer of 2071 and the Americans are invading. In northern Alberta, the forests burn and the Canadian Anti-Annexation Bloc plays cat and mouse with US forces occupying Fort McMurry. Working for CAAB is high risk with little reward, and between the fires and the skirmishes, burn bans, and water shortages, agents Saint and Sundog don't waste a single opportunity to blow off a little steam. And then a little more.Or: how I made a background OC who ended up seducing my Sole Survivor and stealing my heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> There isn't much out there on pre-war Canadian Annexation, so this is a quick, smutty slice-of-sexlife that is followed by longer, non-smutty pre-war piece I'm working on with ghostofshe! Gonna leave this fic open ended. No one dies in the years leading up to 2077, but things don't go happily ever after for these two. Let's face it, their world is ending in less than a decade. I'll keep it ambiguous though, I want my gays to be somewhat happy. Jeanne is bi and Sundog is a lesbian. 
> 
> For ghostofshe for countless reasons, and stitchcasual for loving pre-war Fallout angst-shenanigans so damn much. Y'all are amazing cheerleaders and you'll never know how much you inspire me. So, have some smut.

 

~~~

 

The first time they fuck, it’s a fluke. There’s no preamble, discounting the harmless, relentless flirting that Jeanne is sure comes from boredom more than actual interest. Sundog flirts with everyone.

Their CAAB cell is in the midsts of moving headquarters to a farm one-hundred clicks north, to get out of the path of the wildfires. It is two weeks since the fires started raging east of their encampment, and just a week since Sundog bursts into to the med tent clutching a sprained wrist.

She’s mostly better now, and volunteers help Jeanne move the gear from the med tent to the cargo van. Some furniture and megear boxes of supplies. Jeanne doesn’t need the help, but she can begrudgingly admit to herself that she wants the company.

Sundog’s company. It’s been a long time since she’s done any flirting. So she accepts.

Sundog is all incongruous cheer and crooked grin from behind the damp bandana she wears over her mouth and nose to help cut the smoke. They should be wearing charcoal filter masks, but there are only a few to go around, and those with more physical jobs, and those with respiratory issues take priority. Supplies for the resistance never make it this far north--it’s up to CAAB agents to skim off the top of American supply runs. Relying on double agents from within the army, more often than not. Hardly ideal. Jeanne has become adept at improvised medicine. 

Sundog’s bravado makes Jeanne feel like she’s trying too hard, but it makes her smile a little. Jeanne’s out of practice, smiling. Feels thin.  

Most of the cargo van is packed by the time they take a break. Just a few more cots and some crates of sharps and biohazard containers. Jeanne props herself against the door, mopping her forehead with a bandana that’s too damp to do more than push the sweat around a bit. She sighs and takes a pull of stale water from her canteen. When she looks up she finds Sundog standing in the middle of the room, staring at her. With her face still covered, Jeanne can only read her eyes. She looks almost wistful.

“What?” asks Jeanne, pausing halfway to another sip. 

“Oh nothin’,” Sundog says with a shrug, head tilting to the side. “Just wondering if we’ll ever see each other again, eh?” She sounds utterly backcountry anglo-Canadian. Hard to place where she’s from. Not Quebec or the Maritimes. Maybe the prairies. She’s handsome. Round face, high cheekbones, dark, prominent eyes. Executing that self-satisfied butch confidence that Jeanne has always found inviting.

Jeanne shrugs. “We will if they keep our same assignments.” Then she frowns, her eyes narrowing. “Why?”

"Oh, I dunno.” Sundog takes an easy step forward, and then another, tugging her bandana down to reveal a crooked smile that makes Jeanne’s stomach flip-flop. She’s so at ease in her own skin, it makes Jeanne envious. And nervous. “I just think it’ll be a shame if we go our separate ways without finding out if anything’ll come of our relentless flirting.”

Sundog’s short black hair is sweat-damp and tousled, her skin tawny sun-bronzed. Her face smudged with dirt. Despite all her easy going irreverence, Jeanne notices a sharpness in Sundog’s eyes which surprises her. Makes her think she sees more than she lets on. Makes Jeanne think Sundog sees right through her.

“A shame?” Jeanne echos, shifting a little against the door. Her face grows hot, too warm even for the stifling dry air in the near-empty med tent. Sundog continues to smile, her head tilting to the side. And it dawns on Jeanne, making her brain buzz with static. “Are you making a… _crisse, je ne sais--”_ she fumbles for the English expression-- “ _shit_. Ah. A pass for me?”

Sundog nods, her shoulders shaking as she chuckles. She crosses her arms and leans back to study Jeanne, head tilting. She licks her lips. “Yeah,” she said. “Been meaning to since you patched me up last week. You’re cute. Most interesting person here.”

Jeanne’s face feels dangerously hot. Heart thudding. Tingling in her fingers. Heat exhaustion? She feels a little dizzy and disconnected. Needs more water. “ _Tabarnak--_ I, uh--” 

Sundog’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Ah. Sorry,” she says, her smile softening as she takes a step back. “Misread the signals--”

“No--” Jeanne pushes off the wall, closing on Sundog’s retreat. “Yes. I mean. _Crisse,_ I’m just not good at--” 

Her eyes dance with something like glee. Her eyes give her away. Nothing hidden. Near black in the gloom, though Jeanne knows their brown in the light, from when they’d sat on a rock just outside the camp, sharing lunch. Less amber, like Jeanne’s own eyes, and more like umber. She’s beautiful. Handsome.  

“You’re enjoying this,” Jeanne says. She tries to scowl, but it’s hard from within her daze.

“Yep. You’re adorable. People say you're kinda scary. I can kinda see it. But mostly you're adorable. It’s a good combo.” Jeanne’s face goes hot and prickly all over again, and they stare at each other. Sundog’s head tilts to the side. “What do you want, Saint?”

The question hits Jeanne full stop, and her mind goes quiet. 

In the hazy gloom of the empty tent, Sundog might be the last thing in the world that’s not on fire.

Jeanne wonders what Sundog sees, staring back at her. Not easy to feel wanted, or want things when it feels like the world is ending.

Jeanne isn’t sure what to do with her hands, so she wraps her fingers around Sundog’s wrist. Feels a thready, uneven pulse. Sundog is nervous too, excited maybe. It makes Jeanne feel bold. Sundog tilts her head to the side. Leans in. Laughter and hunger and a sort of knowing make her eyes bright.

“Your eyes…” Jeanne whispers.

When they kiss, Sundog’s mouth is soft and cool, a startling relief. A shocking contrast to the way Jeanne’s skin burns when Sundog finds the hem of her limp t-shirt and slides her fingers up her spine.

It’s quiet, fumbling fuck.

They pull away to help each other free of their shirts, and their mouths meet again, hungrier for their brief separation. Their chests press together. Sundog doesn’t wear a bra, dosen’t need one, it seems. Jeanne’s own chest is hardly contained by her sports bra, and Sundog slips a hand beneath the damp fabric to tease one of her nipples. A jolt of heat makes Jeanne whimper and Sundog’s kisses grow bold, demanding. Just like her hand wandering up and down Jeanne’s hip, fingers pinching and kneading at her breasts. Good hands, firm and strong, calloused.

Jeanne’s tongue seeks, explores a wet, hungry mouth. Bites her lip. Bee-sting kisses. Bare skin against bare skin, their breathing turns to panting as they paw at each other. Sundog’s lanky frame is covered in lean, wiry muscle, standing in sharp contrast to Jeanne’s softness. Sundog pulls their hips together, grinds down on Jeanne’s thigh, her head falling back as she utters a low, gratifying moan.

The burning is more than skin deep now as Jeanne runs her tongue along a bare, prominent collarbone, up Sundog’s neck. Salt and sweat, the smell of her unmasked by soap. Living in the bush makes it difficult to be shy about unwashed bodies, The camp is rationing their water, and everyone smells like themselves.

Sundog makes another noise, and her hand goes tight in Jeanne’s hair, and then the bottom drops out of Jeanne’s stomach and all hesitation falls away with it. There is no time.    

Jeanne begs. Needs to be fucked. Now. Sundog obliges, teeth at her throat, biting hard enough that she’s going to bruise. They stumble back to a cot, the one with the wobbly leg Jeanne is thinking of scrapping. Sundog is everywhere, caging her, pushing her down against the drab canvas and the cot groans with their combined weight.

Whispered directions. A hand between her legs, her pants around her calves, body laid almost bare in a tangle of her clothes. Two, then three of Sundog’s fingers driving into her with a quiet ferocity, Jeannes fingers working relentlessly against her own clit, her other hand gripping tight to the wobbly cot. Sundog still grinding hard against one of Jeanne’s splayed thighs. No kissing now, foreheads pressed together, backs arcing, bodies taught to the point of breaking.

The deep, penetrating ache of Sundog’s fingers, curling inside of her. The friction of her own slick fingers against her clit. Suspended in sweat and ragged breath, Sundog kisses her hard. _Come_ , she whispers to her lips, and the demand breaks her. Sundog gives one of Jeanne’s aching nipples a pinch and then her hand flies up to clamp over Jeanne’s mouth as she comes, stifling her cry. Sundog laughs low in her ear. Whispering her name. _Saint_.

The smell in the air warns of fire as Jeanne floats in refraction. The fire is forty clicks off, she thinks. Smells closer. Only June. Early for fire season. Earlier than last year. At least the fires threaten the US occupiers as well as the resistance.

Sundog grins down at her as Jeanne blinks, coming back from the haze and smell of smoke. Jeanne smiles up at her, and Sundog blinks, looking surprised. And pleased. Self-satisfied butch that she is.

“There’s a real smile,” she says. “Just for me, eh?”

Jeanne can’t quite catch her breath, but she knows what she wants now. “How fast can I get you off?” She sits up a little, adjusts her bra. Sundog shifts, licking her lips. 

The answer, they discover together, is five or so minutes. Jeanne on her knees, head between Sundog’s thighs, her tongue insistent on her clit, her mouth wide and giving everything she can. Sundog is soft and hot and Jeanne drives her tongue inside her over and over until Sundog’s thighs begin to shake. Finds her clit again, sucks down, discovers a new, urgent rhythm with her tongue. Sundog’s fingers nip at Jeanne’s scalp, her hand fisting in her hair as she comes with a moan she can’t quite stifle, bucking her hips so Jeanne has to hold her down.

Jeanne pulls away slowly, her mouth and nose full of the smell of Sundog and smoke, her face slick and wet. Sundog props herself up on her elbows, chest heaving, looking dazed. Self-satisfaction wells up in Jeanne’s chest. Sated. Pleased with herself.

Sundog stretches, her movements languid. Jeanne notes a suggestion of ribs under her lean muscle, her chest flat, nipples brown and still hard, dark hair under her arms. She drops her hands into her lap, smiles down at her. Jeanne puts her in her mid-thirties, laugh lines just starting to form around her mouth and her eyes. She’s handsome, Jeanne admits to herself again, this time with conviction. Her features blunt and masculine. Her ears stick out a bit. Another stab of fire hits Jeanne down in her core, and she laughs. Nervous and elated. They’re running out of time.

Sundog reaches out and runs a thumb along Jeanne’s lower lip, dragging it down her slippery chin. “You’re a saint,” she says.

Jeanne will always remember the smell of that summer. It stays with her, even in Toronto, where she nearly loses herself. In Sanctuary, with Nate and Shaun, when she really does lose herself. After the bombs, and the Vault. In the Wasteland, where she finds herself again. The end of the world.

But right now it’s smoke and Sundog’s sweat, the smell of her wanting Jeanne, the smell of hot metal, worn canvas, and motor oil. Antiseptic and blood from all the wounded Jeanne works on when she’s not off stealing US supplies or blowing up bridges. Mostly she remembers being on her back in the bed of Sundog’s pickup truck. Rolling on top of each other in Sundog’s tent in the woods outside of the new CAAB camp.

She remembers the smell of smoke and Sundog, signaling beginning of the end of the world.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

~~~

 

When she’d first met Sundog, it was at the deep-forest eastward camp, fifty klicks out from American-occupied Fort McMurry, and the tar-sands beyond.

Jeanne had been stationed with this particular CAAB cell since January, when the Alberta snows were three feet deep and every day felt like a near-death experience.

Now it’s summer, and the heat and cruel, biting insects make camp life feel less like purgatory and more like Jeanne is already dead and walking into the light. Summer’s torture is not as immediate as winter’s bone-deep chill. Winter make each tiny moment of relief seem like a victory. Summer is apathy and relief in binary. Ritual gestures of resistance: bug spray, mosquito nets, hand fans and a lot of sweaty, stinky bodies making regular trips to the shallow, muddy little lake for a cooldown.

Sundog joins them in June. Jeanne knows her by sight and reputation only: a engineer and sapper sent up from Edmonton to help plan op routes and find a location for a new base camp out of the path of the wildfires. There’s another newcomer as well: Whistler. Major hadn’t shown up for three weeks and they were in need of another leader. Jeanne had been hoping Forman would get the job, but they would have to settle for this fussy outsider.

At least Sundog is nice to look at, even from a distance.

The camp is dug-in and well hidden at this point in its lifecycle: it boasts three wall tents they use as bunk houses, several lean-tos and a smattering of smaller tents for those who want privacy, as well as Jeanne’s med-tet. It’s a good setup, but they won’t be able to stay. There’s already a burn ban, and wildfire season has begun as a blaze flares east of the camp, separating the CAAB cell from Fort Mac.

Jeanne works third shift, from the late afternoon to late morning. It’s dusk when Sundog bursts into the tent. She’s wiry, dark haired, dark eyed, tawny-skinned. And she’s clutching her wrist.

“What happened,” Jeanne asks. Sundog is trouble, she thinks. Been here two days and already she needs medical attention.

“Took a tumble from a tree,” says the woman, looking wan around the edges, her face tight despite her wry smile. She’s obviously in pain, but not enough to keep a the sheepish _I’m an idiot_ look from her face, the look people give doctors when they’ve done something stupid and sustained a completely avoidable injury. She’s got twigs in her short black hair, dirt on her face. “Gotta make sure this isn’t busted.”  

Jeanne sits her down on an exam cot and looks over her wrist. “Did you hit your head? Any other part of you?”

The woman shakes her head, runs her good hand through the spiky mess of her hair. A leaf flutters free and Jeanne suppresses a smile, mouth going tight as she ghosts her hand down the woman’s arm from elbow to wrist, checking for a full break. There’s nothing immediately worrying. The bruising and swelling starts just above the wrist. She might have a fracture.  

“Push against my hand,” Jeanne says, hovering her own, palm down over Sundog’s. Sundog pushes upward and winces almost immediately, but she can offer a bit of resistance and sustain pressure. Probably no fracture, in that case.

“Can you touch your fingers to your palm? Make a fist?”  

The woman can almost close her hand before she jerks short, her hand cramping up visibly. She hisses in pain and takes a deep breath, looks up at Jeanne. The wince gets replaced by a blithe, sleepy-eyed smile. “Only hurts a little, doctor. What’s the prognosis?”

“I am not a doctor,” comes Jeanne’s tart reply.

The woman huffs a laugh. “Listen, nobody out here’s gonna check your credentials. You could have gotten your degree in a hotdog factory for all I know. Or care. You seem to know what you’re about.”  

Her credentials are military. A deployed medic on the front lines in Anchorage and work in-garrison care in Whitehorse. She’d been planning on advanding to doctor, becoming a surgeon and an officer, when her unit, and hundreds of others in the Royal Canadian Army were disbanded as American occupation grew into more. Annexation.

“A sprain,” Jeanne says, changing the subject. She pulls out an elastic bandage from the supply box and brandishes it at Sundog. “I need this back.”

“Sure. Not broken, then. I don’t need a bandage, doc,” the woman says, hopping up from the cot.

Jeanne clears her throat, shaking head, and forces her back down with a hand on her shoulder.

“Apply cold water. Ice if you can get it. Stabilize and elevate for forty-eight hours,” she says. “It could cut up to a week off healing time. Sprains are difficult. Easy to re-injure. And don’t call me Doc.”

Sundog tilts her head, considering Jeanne. Jeanne meets her eyes for a moment, and then looks away, startled by the intensity she finds there, hidden behind that easygoing smile. “People call you Saint, eh? Cuz you’re just so good.”

Jeanne huffs, rolling her eyes as she wraps the compression bandage around Sundog’s injured wrist. “I’m Saint, yes.”

It’s a private little joke she made for herself when she chose the name. Saint Jeanne. Ties in nicely with the patron saint of Quebec. She wonders if Sundog would find it stupid, if she knew her first name. Jeanne finds it stupid, and she'd chosen it herself.

“And you’re Sundog.” A rare weather phenomenon. Bright and elusive twin halos around the sun, seen only on the coldest, clearest days, when all the water in the air is ice.

“Yep,” says Sundog. “Looks like our reputations precede each other. What gave me away?”

“It’s not hard to place names to newcomers.” Jeanne secures the bandage and Sundog stands, brushing rogue locks of razor straight hair from her face, eyes so brown they’re almost black. “You’re the engineer? Deep-woods nfrastructure. The leaves in your hair are the biggest tell. Maybe you will want to work on your camo.”

Sundog pulls a twig from her hair and flicks it at Jeanne, but it flutters wide. “Seems like we’re both under-qualified. If you’re not a doc, I’m not an engineer, eh? Just a simple electrician who’s good with her hands.” She’s grinning, a look in her eyes that makes Jeanne’s face get hot. “Good at building stuff, I mean.”

Sundog lifts her bandaged right hand for Jeanne to shake, looks at it for a bemused moment, and then thrusts forward her left instead. They exchange an awkward handshake before she leaves. Sundog’s hand warm and calloused, her handshake firm but not aggressive.

Jeanne exhales sharply as the screen door slams shut. The tent feels too small all of a sudden. Jeanne shakes herself, moving on to fuss with the drawer of bandages and other supplies, even though there isn’t enough of them _become_ disorganized. Not really.

They have dinner together a few days later, and Sundog shows Jeanne her arm. It’s much better. Sundog shows her the salve she’d made out of nettle and dandelion and precious beeswax and Jeanne complains about how short they are on medical supplies. Sundog offers her some of the salve for her mosquito bites and offers to teach Jeanne how to make herbal remedies some time. It’s a nice thought, but Jeanne doubts Sundog will be up north much longer. After they move the camp, she’ll be re-assigned.


End file.
